Midnight Angel
by BlueBirdBones
Summary: Eclipse AU: Things like this don't happen to nice, normal girls like Angela Weber.
1. Chapter 1

**Midnight Angel  
By: BlueBirdBones**

**Rating:** T**  
Warnings:** _Eclipse_ spoilers, violence, dark themes

**Disclaimer: **All _Twilight _characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer; my only profit from this story will be the joys of creative expression or whatever – no money.

**Notes:** As stated in the summary, this is an Angela-centric _Eclipse _AU. I apologize in advance for the cheesy dream sequence and a slow start – the latter is because I want to establish Angela's voice and her relationships with other characters; the former is because...I'm a hack? I don't know. Also, I combined the prologue and first chapter because I didn't feel the prologue stood well on its own, being rather short and vague.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy it, and any comments you may have would be greatly appreciated.

* * *

_Prologue_

_"NO!"_

_The scream is ripped from my bloody mouth, agony coiling like a cobra around what passes for my heart and sinking its fangs in, even as the terrible burning in my throat eases. Dry sobs wrack my body as I drop to my knees next to the corpse in the mud. Rain plasters my hair to my skull and streams down my face in lieu of the tears I cannot shed._

_I take his cold face between my colder hands – his skin is pale. So, so pale. His eyes are still open, but cloudy; his mouth rounded into an O of surprise. As gently as I can, I close his mouth, but as usual I underestimate my own strength and the teeth crack together horribly, sending me into further paroxysms of despair._

_So recently those empty eyes had snapped and sparkled at me like blue fire; that mouth had traced a burning path along my jaw. _

Never again_, I tell myself. I don't know if it's a reminder of what Ive lost or yet another futile promise. I'd said the same thing when bent over the last body, and the one before that, and the one before that..._

_The faces of the people I've killed swim in the darkness behind my closed eyes, too many for the short time I've been this...this..._

_Monster._

_I moan, leaning forward so that my forehead rests against his, my arms sliding around his neck and lifting his head off the sodden ground._

_"I loved you," I murmur against his colorless lips. "I am so, so sorry..."_

_A gust of wind splatters rain against my back, carrying with it the familiar smell of the forest and a new, sweetly floral scent._

_My spine stiffens. Several dark shapes emerge from the trees around me, fencing me in.  
_

_

* * *

_

_Chapter One_

"Angela?"

"Hmm?"

I glance up distractedly and meet a pair of disconcertingly golden eyes. Edward Cullen, whose musical voice had pulled me out of my reverie, is looking at me with a slightly troubled expression. Caught off guard, I feel myself blushing; I'm just about used to the Cullens now, having sat with Edward and Alice for a month or so, but every now and then the old self-consciousness resurfaces.

"Is something upsetting you?" he asks, unperturbed by my flustered expression.

"I, um..." I stutter, my thoughts taking a second to unscramble. "No. I'm fine, why?"

"Because you had this look like your brain was caving in," my boyfriend Ben teases me, gently digging his elbow into my side. I roll my eyes at him, gratefully feeling my face return to its normal temperature, and therefore its normal color as well.

"Very flattering, Ben," Alice says, her smile ruining the credibility of her disapproving tone.

He grins at me impishly, but takes my hand underneath the table and squeezes it, as if I'm not used to him by now and need the reassurance. I smile back and he relaxes, letting go of my hand so he can stretch his arms above his head as he yawns.

"Man," he says, dropping his hands back onto the faux-wood table with a thud, "I cant believe I have to sit through an hour of _Beowulf_ when I'm practically unconscious already."

"We all wish," I tell him with a smirk, and it's his turn to roll his eyes as the rest of us laugh. The banter seems to have distracted everyone from my earlier preoccupation. Edward is perceptive – I'd been thinking of my mom and her ever-expanding list of relatives I'm expected to send _hand-addressed _graduation announcements to, my complete lack of anything to wear to prom (although now that I think of it, I could always recycle my dress from last year), and my Calculus test two periods from now, which I was up half the night studying for and am still extremely nervous about–

I stop myself before I work myself into a full-blown panic. For me, the end of the year is coming much too slowly and altogether too fast, although I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who feels that way. I'm not sure I'm going to have enough time to finish the numerous projects I have lined up, not to mention study for finals. I don't realize I'm drumming my nails anxiously against the table until a warm hand covers mine and effectively halts the movement.

"Serious mental avalanche there, Angela," Ben remarks, eyebrows raised.

_"Mental avalanche_?" I retort, and the bell rings before anyone else can speak. I gather my things, wave to Ben, and follow Edward and Bella out of the cafeteria. Bella turns to me as I fall into step beside her.

"You know, you _have_ looked kind of worried all day," she says, her light brown eyes concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Sure," I reassure her. "I've just got a lot to do – end of the year craziness, you know how it is."

"Believe me," she says, smiling strangely. A faint alarm bell in the back of my mind goes off; there's an edge to Bella's words I don't really get, something that's been happening a lot lately. I can never pin down exactly what it is that bothers me sometimes – a weird tilt to her smile, or a vagueness in her eyes that just wasn't there before...well, before. I don't want to think badly of Edward, but when he broke up with Bella earlier in the year, he changed her, somehow. Now Bella sometimes gives me the impression that she's counting down the days, and I don't think it's until graduation.

Edward sneezes violently, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"Bless you," I say, startled, as we enter the Physics classroom. The seating arrangement has me on the other side of the room from my friends, so whenever the class gets boring (which is depressingly often) I have to entertain myself. Today our teacher is in full-on drone mode, so I pull out my Calculus notes and anxiously begin scanning them again. Math is the only subject that requires a lot of effort on my part, and my sleepless night isn't helping. Even after I had exhausted myself studying, I couldn't stay asleep. My dreams were eerie – dark and with the overwhelming feeling of being watched, a feeling that persisted even after I woke up sweating, which to me seems like an overreaction. As far as nightmares go, I've had worse than that. I don't know why this dream affected me so much.

If it costs me an A in Calculus, though, I will be seriously annoyed.

-

I come out of the test feeling fairly confident, which means I either did very well or very, very badly. While I hope it's the former, I'm already preparing myself for the latter, by which I mean figuring out how I'll explain it to my mom in a way that will hopefully not end with my death. I've just gotten to a combination of written note and full body armor when a pair of arms snakes around my waist.

"Hey," Ben says, forcing us into a weird, stumbling walk as he tries to move forward and keep my back pressed against his chest at the same time.

"Wow, Ben, this is really elegant."

"Yeah," he agrees, planting a quick kiss on my neck, "but you like it."

"I'm only putting up with this because you promised to help me address my announcements," I tell him dryly.

At this he pauses, his grip on my waist slackening. Perplexed, I turn in his arms and take in his suddenly sheepish expression.

"Actually, I...wanted to talk to you about that."

"Ben!" I exclaim, aware that hes about to bail out. Luckily for him, he looks genuinely apologetic, making me unable to be as angry with him as I want to be.

_"Eye of the Serpent_ comes out Saturday, and Austin, being a forgetful moron, went and bought tickets already."

I'm silent for a minute, thinking in dismay of the pile of envelopes I have to address, twice as big now that Ben's not splitting the work with me.

"Are you upset?" he asks hesitantly. I frown at him.

"Of course I'm upset! My hand is going to cramp up into a claw and then fall off!"

He chews on his lower lip, a now-familiar nervous gesture that I wish wasn't so endearing, because I can already feel my annoyance receding.

"If it's really that important to you," he begins, but I cut him off with a sigh, waving my hand.

"No, it's okay. Really. I'll either find someone else to help or manage on my own – it's not such a big deal."

To his credit, he tries to disguise his relief.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, don't worry."

Inwardly, though, I groan. This is not going to be a fun project, and it'll take hours. My hand aches just thinking about it.

"Hey," he says brightly, "how about this? You could come to the movie with us, and I'll help you with your announcements after?"

"Well..." I take a moment, pretending to consider when I know I'm going to refuse. First of all, I can't stand cheesy, badly-dubbed martial arts movies, and from what I've gathered from Ben's enthusiastic reenactments of the previews, _Eye of the Serpent_ falls squarely into that category. Second, I know that Ben was planning on it being a guy thing, and if I tagged along it would just be awkward.

"That's okay," I tell him after a pause, "I think I'll pass."

"You sure?"

"Yep. I'd just make fun of it, you know – it'd kill the atmosphere."

"Have I mentioned lately how thankful I am to have the most considerate girlfriend in the world?" he asks, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses.

"I'm still mad at you," I inform him, but without any real conviction. I mean, I _am_ kind of aggravated, but how can I be mad at him when he's looking at me like this, practically glowing with appreciation and affection?

If there were any hard-core feminists around, I'm sure they'd be disgusted by my easy forgiveness. But there aren't, so I let myself laugh and enjoy our stumbling, goofy walk towards my car.

"You're lucky you're cute," I grumble good-naturedly as I slide behind the wheel (a little awkwardly – my car is small and I have to fold my 5'11" frame into it carefully), Ben gallantly holding the car door open for me. We drove separately today, so I dump my bookbag on the passenger seat he would normally occupy.

"Drive safely now," Ben warns in a deep voice, attempting a stern imitation of a cop. "Make sure you and your passengers are wearing their seat belts."

He plunges his upper body into the car, leaning across my lap to strap my bookbag into the seat. I roll my eyes.

"Thanks, officer."

"Love you, Angel," he says in his normal voice, and kisses me while I'm still smiling at him.

"Love you, too," I respond, blushing in spite of myself and trying not to think about how sappy the whole scene is, even though we've been through it plenty of times before.

"I'll drive tomorrow," he offers, and stands back so I can close the car door.

"Okay. See you then."

He salutes me as I carefully back out of the space and join the line to exit the parking lot. I glance at his retreating form in my rear-view mirror, and as if he senses my eyes on his back, he half-turns and lifts a hand in yet another goodbye. Smiling, I shake my head and turn on the radio. An insipid pop song fills the small interior of the car and I dial down the volume until it's just background noise with an addicting beat, humming along softly as I drive the short distance home.

Home is both a haven and a source of stress, although the latter is mostly due to my mother. I know she means well, but with college and relative freedom just around the corner, her constant presence feels suffocating. I tense up just thinking about the stream of questions and commands that will greet me as soon as I walk in the door.

I park in my usual place in the driveway, unbuckle my bookbag (the memory of Ben strapping it in makes me smile), and climb out of the car. My younger twin brothers Isaac and Joshua won't be home yet – they're on the same Little League team and have practice right after school – so I should take advantage of the quiet and get some work done. I let myself in the front door and have my foot on the first step when my mom calls from the kitchen, "Angela, how was your test?"

"Fine. _Hi_, Mom," I add pointedly. She appears in the doorway, arms folded, interrogation face on.

"Whats 'fine'?" she presses, ignoring my not-so-subtle prompt. Resigning myself to the questioning, I take my foot off the step and suppress a sigh.

"'Fine' as in I knew how to do all of the problems, I had time to check my work, and I left feeling pretty good about it."

_And I spent a ridiculous amount of time studying for it, so even if it didn't go well after all, it's not due to a lack of effort on my part_, I add silently, but I'm too chicken to say it out loud.

My mom frowns. "I thought feeling good about a test after it's over made you nervous."

I wonder, in an abstract sort of way, if she'd drop the subject if I started ripping my hair out right here. Instead I take the less physically painful option and set about reassuring her that this is "good feeling good," not "potentially failed feeling good," and repeating that I knew how to do all of the problems. Finally, with a reluctant nod, she releases me, and I turn back to the stairs in relief.

"Start on those graduation announcements tonight," Mom says over her shoulder as she heads back into the kitchen, and I grind my teeth.

"Yeah, okay."

Once in my room, I shut the door, collapse face-first on my twin bed, and groan loudly into my pillow. I roll onto my back and splay my limbs as much as I can on the narrow mattress, so that I look like I've been run over by a truck as well as feel like it. I don't want to think about everything I have to do tonight, but since I'm me, I do it anyway: French homework, Physics lab, English paper due in three days, a chapter in American History to read and take notes on, a new chapter to begin in Calculus...and that's just school. I also have graduation announcements to address, I promised to help Isaac and Joshua with their science project, I'll probably have to do the dishes after dinner, and I need to wrestle last year's prom dress out of my closet and make sure it doesn't need to be dry-cleaned.

I can't bring myself to do any of it. Not yet. Not when I'm already lying down, and its quiet in the house except for the occasional rattling and clanking from the kitchen, and I'm so tired...

Maybe because I know I should be working instead of sleeping, my dream is dark and unpleasant. I'm neither inside nor outside – I'm standing in some sort of half-rotted wooden shack encroached upon by the surrounding woods, trees and sky clearly visible through the nonexistent roof. It's not quite nighttime even though the sun has set – the air is suffused with a purplish glow. Twilight. I'm not alone, but the other shapes in the room are shadowy and slide back into my peripheral vision whenever I try to look at them directly. Instead of the sounds of wildlife, which I'd expect in the middle of the woods, the only noise is the whimpering and faint growling of the others. Disturbed and confused, I wish I could leave, but no – we're all waiting for someone.

That someone appears shortly, and the sight of her has me shrinking back against the damp, rotten wall. She looks like a human, but moves like an animal – crouched low to the ground, taking slow, predatory strides into the middle of the room. Her eyes look black in the fading light.

When she smiles, her teeth are bloody.

"Dinnertime," she whispers, and it's the signal we've been waiting for: the others surge forward, snarling, howling, sprouting claws and fangs and I'm doing it too, inhuman sounds are tearing from my throat that burns like I swallowed fire...

I sit bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath. My hair is stuck to my neck and my shirt is plastered to my back with sweat; my heart is pounding so hard that for a second it's all I can hear. I notice that the light in my room is still dim and faintly tinted with purple, and for a second I don't know if I'm awake or asleep or even where I am. Slowly, reason reasserts itself: I definitely rested for more than a few minutes, and everything that just happened was just another nightmare, no doubt stemming from the fact that _I am utterly and completely screwed_ – it's almost eight o clock!

"Crap!"

I jump out of bed and fumble along my wall for the light switch, and the eerie twilight recedes in the artificial glow from my overhead light. I take a moment to orient myself, studying my furniture and overflowing laundry hamper and the usual detritus of teenage existence like they can physically tether me in consciousness.

Dinnertime, my moms voice floats up the stairs.

_Dinnertime_, the animal-woman from my dream hisses in my memory. I shudder and crack my door open.

"Coming!"

My voice sounds high and scared even to me, but hopefully my mom is too preoccupied by my brothers and dad, whose voices I can now hear tumbling over each other like water in a brook, to notice.

I make a quick detour to the bathroom I unfortunately share with my siblings and splash water on my face. I glance in the mirror and flinch: hair a tangled mess, eyes wild, damp circles spreading under my arms – I look like hell. I drag a brush through my hair and return to my room to change shirts, forcing myself to relax. _Must not go down to dinner looking possessed._

Five minutes later, Joshua passes me the salad bowl. He and Isaac are chattering about Little League and how they think the team name (Bats) is stupid; they'd rather be the Pumas or Tigers or some other carnivorous beast sure to strike fear in the hearts of their nine-year-old opponents. No one else has time to get a word in edgewise, for which I am grateful.

But with uncanny precision, Mom manages to sneak in a question as both twins take a drink at the same time: "How's your homework coming along, Angela?"

Typical.

"Fine," I lie instinctively. "I still have French." _And everything else_.

"They don't let up for a second at the school, do they?" my dad observes. I'm spared formulating a coherent response as Isaac lets out a truly disgusting belch, which sufficiently distracts everyone else at the table and allows me to slip away unnoticed. I scrape my mostly untouched dinner into the trash and rinse my plate, my heart beginning to pound double-time again. By now the dream is a vaguely unsettling memory; the only thing I'm worried about now is making up for lost time as far as my homework's concerned. With any luck, by the time I finish I'll be too exhausted for nightmares.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** So I woke up this morning, looked in the mirror, and realized that I'm still not Stephenie Meyer. I guess I don't own Twilight.

**Notes:** First of all, thanks to everyone who took the time to read, and especially to those of you who reviewed - I really appreciate your comments! I hope the story continues to hold your interest. That said, this is another slow and rather long chapter (almost 5,000 words, yikes) - I wanted to spend more time developing Angela's relationship with Ben and Bella before I got to the interesting stuff. The scenes should be familiar from Eclipse, although I tried not to make them exact copies. I mean, you've already read it, right? No? What the hell - go read the book and get back to me, fool. Jeez.

Everyone else, I hope you enjoy the chapter. Comments and constructive criticism are deeply appreciated.

* * *

_Chapter Two_

On the plus side, by the time I finally collapse into bed at four a.m., I _am_ too tired for nightmares: if I dream anything in my few hours of unconsciousness, I don't remember it when I wake up an hour late.

Which brings me to the negative side.

I don't even have time for breakfast, much less a shower – Ben pulls into my driveway as I'm frantically trying to brush my teeth and put my hair in a ponytail at the same time. I don't bother changing out of the clothes I'd worn to bed or find proper shoes, choosing instead to keep my sweatpants on and tug a blue wool cardigan on over my T-shirt as I shove my feet into my beat-up (and, I would later realize with dismay, sort of smelly) Birkenstocks. I run out the door with half of my books in my arms instead of my bookbag. Ben raises his eyebrows as I throw myself into the passenger seat, panting and flushed.

"I'd say 'Good morning,' but you'd probably stab me."

"Overslept," I pant, buckling myself in. "I just woke up ten minutes ago – I didn't have time to shower or eat and…is that smell coming from _my_ shoes?"

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything…" Ben begins, then laughs at my mortified expression.

"Relax, Angela, I don't smell anything. Really. Here, eat this." He reaches behind his seat, fumbles around, and comes up with a slightly squashed banana.

"How long has that been in here?" I ask suspiciously.

"Since this morning – see, it's not rotting or anything, just a little…"

"Squished and oozing?"

"A healthy ooze," Ben declares. "Loaded with potassium."

Ooze or no ooze, I'm starving. I devour the un-squashed part of the banana, only realizing once he's pulling into a parking space that I've probably just eaten Ben's breakfast.

"Ben, I'm sorry – you probably wanted that."

"Nah, I had, like, five muffins before I left. The banana was just for appearances."

"Thought someone would be analyzing your breakfast, huh? Don't blame you. Happens to me all the time."

"Yeah, I think I read about you in the gossip column. What killed me is that it was the same thing _every day_."

"I do not eat the same thing every day!"

"Honey Nut Cheerios with skim milk and strawberries," Ben counters. "And then you brush your teeth again."

"Are you _stalking_ me?" I demand, twisting in my seat to stare at him incredulously.

"No, but I _have_ been going out with you for a year," he says reasonably, cutting the engine. "You'd think I'd be somewhat familiar with your eating habits by now."

"Maybe," I admit, unbuckling my seat belt and opening the door. "But still – I don't think I could say what _you_ have for breakfast."

"That's because I switch it up every morning. Each day is a new dietary adventure. It drives my mom nuts, but a man needs variety."

I say goodbye to him at my locker and start unloading my bookbag, greeting my friends as they pass but avoiding engaging in any prolonged conversation – my mind is fuzzy from two nights of dramatically shortened sleep.

I get through my morning classes on autopilot, barely registering my teachers' words even as I copy them into my binder. I wake up a little at the sight of the prom fliers on the cafeteria doors – it's this weekend, and I'm just now realizing that I don't really want to wear last year's dress. It's lame, but I want to get something new for Ben. But then again, he won't be wearing something new either. And either way, there's not much I can do about it now. At least I won't have to deal with the agony of trying to find a dress _and _shoes _and _jewelry that match three days before the dance. Talk about your nightmares.

I brought my lunch, but I buy a soda from one of the vending machines, figuring I could use the caffeine. I head towards my usual table – Ben's already there, so engrossed in some comic book that he doesn't notice his glasses are sliding down his nose. Alice is standing in line waiting to buy her lunch; I catch her eye and she shoots me a glinting smile. Bella and Edward have Spanish together, so they walk in side by side.

"Have you sent your announcements yet?" I ask the table in general once everyone sits down. I blurt this out because I'm in the middle of calculating how many envelopes I should address per day by next weekend to have them all finished, in hopes that breaking the task down into pieces will make it seem less overwhelming. It isn't working. And it turns out I'm the only one who's even concerned about this – Alice and Edward are done, I happen to know that Ben's mom is taking care of it for him, and Bella doesn't have an extended family to invite. Which makes me feel a little insensitive, so of course I stupidly begin blathering about my mom's hundred cousins and the Herculean labor of hand-addressing the announcements that's in store for me.

"I'll help you," Bella offers. "If you don't mind my terrible handwriting."

Relief sweeps over me in a wave.

"That's so nice of you," I gush. "I'll come over any time you want," I add, remembering that her dad grounded her until basically the end of time, although she hadn't gone into detail as to why. But Edward came back around the same time, so I've always suspected that it had something to do with him.

"Actually," Bella says, interrupting my speculation, "I'd rather go to your house if that's okay – I'm sick of mine. Charlie un-grounded me last night," she explains with a big grin, seeing my confused look.

"Really?" I ask, perking up. "I thought you were in for life."

"Me too! I thought I'd be long out of high school by the time he set me free."

"This is great," I say happily, excited for her. "We definitely have to celebrate!"

"You have no idea how good that sounds," she laughs.

"What should we do?" Alice muses, tapping her fingers together under her chin. Her eyes look glazed with possibilities. Apparently Bella knows the implications of that look, because her voice is dry as she says, "Whatever you're plotting, I doubt I'm _that _free."

"Free is free, isn't it?" Alice says stubbornly.

"I'm sure I still have boundaries – like, say, the continental U.S."

Ben and I laugh while Alice pouts. For a second it looks like she's genuinely upset – but if the Cullens are as rich as people say (or rather, gossip), maybe a quick jaunt out of the country_ isn't_ a ludicrous notion.

"Then what are we doing tonight?" Alice persists.

"Honestly, I think it might be better to give Charlie a few days to make sure he wasn't joking. I don't want to freak him out by asking for favors too fast. Plus, it's a school night," Bella rationalizes.

"Then we'll just have to celebrate this weekend – after prom, of course," she adds out of courtesy to Ben and me.

"Sure," Bella concedes, smiling.

"Well, now that Europe's out the question, is there something more local you had in mind?" I ask Alice, and she immediately launches into a list of possibilities. She's talking too fast for commentary, so I either nod or shake my head in response to her suggestions. Ben tries to follow for a couple minutes, but eventually his comic book recaptures his attention.

"Just hanging around in Port Angeles might be fun," I say thoughtfully. "We could all grab dinner at La Bella Italia, take a walk by the pier…"

It's a moment before I realize Alice isn't listening. Not only is she not listening, she has the freakiest expression on her face – totally blank, eyes unblinking and unfocused like she's gazing into some middle distance. Her pupils have dilated so much they overwhelm the warm topaz color of her irises.

"Alice? Alice!"

I wave my hand frantically in front of her face, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. God, I'm not sure she's even _breathing_ –

A smooth, musical laugh temporarily distracts me. I glance over at Edward, the source, and then Alice flinches in her seat. I look at her worriedly, but the blank expression is gone – she looks completely normal again.

"Naptime already, Alice?" Edward teases her, and she laughs sheepishly.

"I'm sorry! I must have been daydreaming."

"Better than facing two more hours of school," Ben points out, seemingly unaffected by what just happened.

"Angela, forgive me – what were you saying?" Alice continues, and pays rapt attention as I repeat my suggestion about walking around Port Angeles, nodding enthusiastically and throwing out more ideas. But I can't help but feel unnerved for the rest of the period, although that could just be sleep deprivation catching up with me.

Ben and I have French together after lunch, and I force myself to focus on the story he's telling me as we walk to the Languages building instead of constantly analyzing and reanalyzing Alice's weird behavior at lunch. I silently berate myself for fabricating all this drama – as if there's not enough going on right now! The rainbow of fliers on the walls attests to that: graduation announcements, cap and gown fittings, prom, junior campaigns, some "Save the Olympian Wolf" effort – the colors and words seem to spin in a sick merry-go-round of pressure in my exhausted mind.

"You okay?" Ben's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. We've paused in front of the French classroom, and his eyes are concerned.

"Yeah, just really tired," I say lamely. I feel sort of bad for not elaborating more, especially since he gives me a look like he knows I'm holding back, but is this really the place to get into it? I've vented to him enough about my crazy mom, our unreasonable teachers, the pressure I'm under, and so on. I'm starting to feel like a broken record.

And yet, I can't help but think that all of this would be tolerable if it wasn't for my subconscious antics. Even when my bizarre dreams aren't waking me up ten times a night, the memory of them bleeds into my days and messes with my mood. I'm tired, distracted, and disturbed the vast majority of the time, and I'm getting sick of it already.

My bad mood persists through French and English, and Ben must have decided to give me space to work through it, because he's uncharacteristically quiet as he drives me home.

"Hey, Angela?" he ventures as I'm getting out of the car. I bend down and poke my head back in.

"Yeah?"

"You know you can tell me if something's bugging you, right?"

"Of course I do," I say, surprised.

"Okay. You just seemed kind of out of it today, is all."

"I know, I'm sorry. I just haven't been sleeping well."

"Okay," he repeats. "Well, if you're sure you're all right…" he lets his voice trail off, and I hastily reassure him that I'm fine.

"Really," I insist. "I'll feel better this weekend, when we can just have fun at prom and forget about school for a few hours."

"No kidding," he agrees. "All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow, and call me if you want anything."

"You're the greatest, Ben," I tell him sincerely.

"My mom was right!" he jokes, pumping his fist. We say goodbye and he backs carefully out of my driveway, then waves as he drives away. I stand and stare blankly out at the street for a few minutes before I go inside.

-

Prom _is_ fun, although it's too bad that Bella and Edward aren't there with us. (It turns out they went to visit Bella's mom in Florida. I bet Bella's glad to see her – as aggravating as my mom can be, I don't think I'd want to be across the country from her all the time, and from what Bella's told me about her mom, the two of them are very close.) Ben compliments me on my old dress like he's never seen it before, and when the DJ ill-advisedly plays an old Spice Girls hit – I notice Jessica and her posse singing along, looking thrilled – Ben takes my hand and says, mock-seriously, "Angela, I want this to be our song. We shall dance inappropriately to it on our 50th anniversary, just like Jessica and Mike. By then I'll have mastered the pelvic thrust."

I nearly choke on my Sprite, trying not to laugh at the said couple on the dance floor, but give in to hopeless giggles when I spot Mr. Berty making his way over to assert school policy, his expression deeply aggrieved.

Predictably, Lauren Mallory makes the obligatory comment about my recycled dress ("It's so pretty, but it looks sort of _familiar_…"), but I grudgingly have to admit that she looks stunning in her own short, shimmery grey number. Thankfully, I'm not the only one who decided against buying a new dress – I spot a few other girls in "familiar" outfits in the crowd.

In the end, partly because we're not great friends with anyone else at the dance and partly because Ben has to work in the morning, we decide to forego the after-parties. Ben drops me off at home shortly after midnight; shoes in hand (I abandoned them thirty minutes after arriving), I tell him to be careful driving home and let myself into my house quietly. My mom's already asleep, and my dad is leading a weekend retreat up at church, so I don't have to rehash the events of the night just yet. I'm glad – I had a good time, but I'm beat.

I gratefully replace my dress with loose pajamas, wipe off the small amount of makeup I had reluctantly put on earlier in the evening, and drop into bed. Tired as I am, I'm kind of buzzed as well, no doubt the effect of the loud music and endless supply of free soda. I try to close my eyes, but they keep springing open.

The moon is bright and casts the shadows of the tree branches outside my window onto my ceiling – I watch them move for a while, hoping that their gentle swaying motions will lull me to sleep.

Which is why I notice when a new, solid shape appears among the spindly branches.

My blood goes cold, something I'd read about but never actually experienced. Outwardly I stay absolutely still, so still I stop breathing, but inwardly I'm panicking.

_What is that is that a person oh my god there's someone outside my window oh god oh god…_

A scream builds in my throat and I clamp my eyes shut, and when I open them again – nothing. Just the shadows of the branches swaying innocently on my ceiling, no other shape in sight. Heart pounding, too afraid to actually get up and check the window, I continue to lie very, very still in bed, eyes frozen open. The shape doesn't reappear, and eventually I start to suspect that I imagined the entire thing. Or, if I didn't imagine it, that I just freaked out over nothing.

_It could have been an owl (it was too big) or maybe a cloud blocking some of the light (it was too solid) or just _something_ non-menacing and safe. _

It could have been. It probably was.

Even so, I don't fall asleep for a long time.

-

I don't tell anyone about the incident, but it nags at me from the back of my mind all Sunday. Fortunately (or maybe not so fortunately, depending on who you ask), distraction arrives on Monday.

It arrives in the form of the hugest boy I've ever laid eyes on. Well over six feet tall, incredibly muscular, and the owner of an equally enormous black motorcycle, he catches the attention of everyone walking into school, but he's only waiting for one person.

Or maybe two people. It doesn't matter: you generally don't get Bella or Edward without the other.

I feel guilty for staring, but it's almost impossible _not_ to: the boy with the motorcycle – Jacob Black, I suddenly realize, Bella's friend from La Push – and Edward look ready to rip each other's throats out, even though they're talking too quietly for any of us bystanders to hear. It's so weird – for a minute Edward even looks _scary_, and I find myself thinking, unexpectedly, _Bella, what have you gotten yourself into?_

Then I feel really stupid, and turn resolutely away from the scene that's none of my business anyway. I spot Principal Greene making his way towards the crowd to break it up, which spurs me on as I head to my first class – I'd rather not cross his path when he looks this aggravated.

The confrontation between the Edward and Jacob is the only thing anyone talks about for the rest of the day. Ben tells me that Mike Newton is placing bets on which of them would take the other in a fight, which is so typical I can't even muster the appropriate level of disgust.

"Sucks for Bella, though, getting caught up in the middle of that," he remarks. I have to agree. I've never understood why girls like the idea of two boys fighting over them; I think that actually being in that situation would be awful, and judging by Bella's morose expression, I'm right. It must be even worse when one of those boys used to be a good friend, and your boyfriend apparently despises him. Who would want to choose between them? Who _could_?

Bella looks put out, even shaken, for the rest of the week, but when I ask if she'd rather not slave over my graduation announcements on Saturday, she insists that she still wants to come.

"After work," she promises. "Trust me, I could use the distraction."

"Oh, I know what you mean."

I can't help but notice that she looks slightly skeptical as she says, "I bet – things are kind of crazy around here."

Well, I guess that's one way to put it. I've been sleeping with my curtains drawn since Saturday night, and the memory of the shadowy apparition still disturbs me. Yet I still can't bring myself to tell anyone about it – probably because it's ridiculous for an eighteen-year-old to be literally afraid of shadows.

When Bella shows up at my house the next day, I notice immediately that she looks better, although her eyes are anxious. Ben's over – nothing unusual; we almost always hang out at either his house or mine over the weekends – but Austin shows up at almost the same time as Bella, so soon it's just us girls.

It strikes me, as I divide the pile of envelopes, that this is the first time in a long time that it's just been Bella and me. It's strange to see her without Edward, like she's missing a limb.

"Whoa," she comments, looking over the massive stack with poorly-concealed dismay.

I grimace at her apologetically.

"I thought you were exaggerating," she admits.

"Are you sure you still want to do this? I know it's a lot." I bite my lip – I've grown somewhat used to the Mt. Everest of unaddressed announcements, but as I consider the task from Bella's perspective, I'm struck with a renewed sense of shock and hopelessness. But to my surprise, she isn't put off.

"By all means, put me to work," she says, dropping decisively into one of the chairs and grabbing a pen. "I've got all day."

We share my mom's address book, and for a while the only noise is the squeaking of our pens on paper. But I notice her chewing on her lower lip out of the corner of my eye, and every now and then she hesitates a little too long over an envelope, her expression distant.

"So…" I venture. "Are you doing okay?"

"What?" she looks over at me, taken aback.

"Nothing, it's just that you seem a little anxious."

"Is it that obvious?" she asks with a rueful smile.

"Oh no, not really," I backtrack hastily – I didn't mean to imply that she looked panicked or something. I look back down at the envelope in front of me and resume scrawling out my great-aunt Maureen's address.

"I'll mind my own business," I tell Bella placidly, since she doesn't look like she wants to talk about whatever's on her mind.

"It's Edward," Bella admits after a moment. "He's mad at me."

"Mad at you?" I repeat, glancing up in surprise. "I find that hard to believe." Edward and Bella are so obvious about their adoration for each other, it's impossible to picture him actually angry with her.

The memory of his frightening, almost inhuman face in the parking lot rises, unbidden, in my mind's eye. I push it back down impatiently.

As if reading my mind, Bella asks, "Remember Jacob Black?"

"Ah. That would explain it. So," I add playfully, "he's jealous of Jacob, huh?"

"Oh, I doubt _that_," Bella responds, making a face. "No, he thinks Jake is kind of a…bad influence."

That strikes me as an oddly paternal view for him to take, but Edward, in addition to being oddly courteous, well-spoken, and – it has to be said – ridiculously good looking, is also pretty protective. Way more protective than Ben, that's for sure. I can't really imagine Edward leaving Bella alone to hit a movie with his brothers, for instance.

"I see. Where is Edward, by the way?"

"He's _supposed _to be camping." I immediately pick up on her doubtful tone, and give her a questioning look.

"He might have come back early," she explains.

"Because of Jacob."

"Yeah…" she shrugs.

I chew on my lip for a second before I say, as lightly as I can manage, "You know Bella, I've seen how Jacob looks at you. Maybe Edward thinks he's…dangerous…but I bet jealousy's a factor, too."

"It's not like that with Jacob," she insists.

"For you maybe, but for Jacob…" I point out gently.

Bella frowns down at the desk. "He knows how I feel. And I've talked about it with Edward."

"Edward's only human, Bella – he can know logically that he has no reason to be jealous, but he can't help how he feels."

Bella makes a face and falls silent, so I add, "He'll get over it."

"I hope so," she says quietly. "Jake's going through a hard time – it's tough not being able to be there for him when I know he needs me."

"It's got to be hard," I say sympathetically. "I know you guys are close."

"He's practically family," she agrees.

"I wonder what Ben would do if I had a friend he didn't like."

"Probably what any other guy would do," Bella says wryly, half-smiling.

"Yeah, probably," I grin back.

It's pretty clear that she doesn't want to talk about her boy trouble anymore, so I change the subject to the first thing that comes to mind: "I got my dorm assignment yesterday. I'm in the farthest building from campus, naturally."

Bella groans in sympathy, obviously relieved to be talking about something else. "Does Ben know where he's staying yet?"

We're both going to the University of Washington together. Some would accuse me of structuring my life around my boyfriend, but since a fourth of our class is probably going to wind up there too, I don't see it that way.

"The closest dorm to campus," I answer. "Figures. Hey, have you decided where you're going yet?"

Bella hesitates, fiddling with the edge of an envelope, before responding, "Alaska, I think. The university in Juneau."

"Alaska?" I can't keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. "I mean, that's great, but…I don't know, I just figured you'd go somewhere warmer," I joke lamely. Inwardly, my stomach seems to shrink. Ben's undeniably my best friend, but out of all the other girls at school, I feel like Bella and I have the most in common. The thought of her all the way up in Alaska makes me feel lonely all of a sudden.

"Yeah," Bella says, the casualness in her voice sounding forced. "I guess Forks converted me."

"What about Edward?" I ask, although if I had to bet…

Bella brightens, a grin spreading across her face as she says, "Alaska's not too cold for Edward either."

…I'd have won.

"Of course not," I tease her, then sigh. "You're going to be so far away, though…you won't really be able to visit. I'll miss you. Will you email me?"

"If I can still type after this," she jokes, gesturing towards the envelopes. We both laugh and the somber feeling dissolves. We move on to more cheerful topics then, chatting about majors and how the dorm food will probably be just as atrocious as our current cafeteria food. Bella convinces me to try a photography class, something I've always been interested in but too self-conscious to try besides taking the occasional candid for the yearbook. I probe her about classes she might be interested in, but she admits that she has no idea what she wants to major in.

"I mean, I love the classics and I got into writing short stories when I was in middle school, so English probably makes the most sense," she says thoughtfully. "But maybe I should go for something more practical."

"I don't know – I think if you're passionate about something, you should stick with it. You could always test out other areas while you're fulfilling your core requirements, though."

She winds up helping me stamp the envelopes too, and then we just sit for a minute, massaging our hands.

"Still attached," I observe. "Better than I was expecting."

"I might even be able to use it again…someday," Bella agrees.

The front door opens and bangs shut, and heavy feet clomp up the stairs.

"Ang?" Ben calls. Bella looks at me, a weird, tight smile on her face.

"Guess that's my cue, huh?" she asks, getting to her feet slowly.

"You don't have to leave! Although I should warn you…Ben's going to describe the movie. In detail. Possibly with reenactments."

"Charlie's going to be wondering where I am, anyway," she says, shrugging. She picks her bag up off the floor and slides the strap onto her shoulder.

"Thanks so much for helping me," I tell her. "You seriously have no idea how much I owe you."

"No," she protests. "I had a good time. It was nice to hang out like this, just the girls. We should do it again."

"Yeah, definitely."

There's a light knock on the door, and I call, "Come in, Ben."

"Ladies," Ben greets in a faux-smooth voice. Bella laughs as I scoff. "Good to see you survived. Too bad there's nothing left to do – I was all set to help you out."

"Sure, sure," Bella says sarcastically. Ben affects an offended expression, which melts away as he turns to me excitedly.

"You should've been there for this one. It was so awesome – the fight sequences were…man, I can't even tell you. You have to see it."

"Mm-hmm. Tell me, Ben, did any of these fight sequences involve…slo-mo?"

"Well…"

"Impossible acrobatics?"

"That's kind of a given, but–"

"I think I'll have to deprive myself of this particular experience."

Bella laughs, although there's a nervous edge to it. "I'd better get going. I'll see you in school, guys."

"See you," I sigh – Ben is practically bouncing in place, he's so eager to start busting out ninja moves. Once the front door closes, I turn to him; he's already moving into a crane stance.

"Tell you what," I suggest slyly, scooting my rolling chair closer to him. "How about you hone a more interesting skill?"

"You know…I might consider that," he says, grinning. For a good, long time after that, no one talks.

It's the last nice day I'll have for a long time.

* * *

Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I thought about crossing out Stephenie Meyer's name on the books and writing in my own instead, but it seemed like a lot of effort just to avoid writing this disclaimer. I still don't own any of the Twilight characters (but Clair is an original).

**Notes:** First: Many, many thanks to those of you who read, particularly those who left comments - I really love hearing your thoughts, and I'm glad you guys seem to like the story so far.

Second: Finally, some action! (What? No, not _that _kind of action. Get out of here, perv.) This is another long chapter, but hopefully eventful enough to hold your interest. It's also sort of a celebratory, "my finals are over, I'm free!" chapter, at least in my mind. Not that it's actually uplifting in any way, but whatever. I hope you like it! As always, comments - especially constructive criticism - are very much appreciated.

* * *

_Chapter Three_

My plans for Sunday afternoon consist of cramming for finals while babysitting Joshua and Isaac. I'm sitting at the kitchen table with my French textbook open to the pluperfect subjunctive when the twins burst inside. One look at their faces, completely drained of color and eyes dark with terror, and I'm out of my chair and pulling them to my chest.

"What's wrong?" I demand, pulling back just enough so that I can look into their faces. For a second neither of them speaks; they gaze at each other in mute horror.

"Isaac? Joshua? Tell me!" I beg, resisting the urge to shake them. What could have possibly done this to my brothers?

Finally Joshua whimpers, "I kicked my soccer ball into the woods, and…and when I went in to get it…"

He clamps his lips together. Both he and Isaac have started shaking.

"What? Did you see an animal? A snake, or…?"

Both twins shake their heads.

"Not an animal," Isaac whispers. "A lady."

"A lady?"

My skin prickles unpleasantly; all the fine hairs of my body feel like they're standing on end. The twins wouldn't look like this if they'd run across an average hiker in the woods. My mind races with possibilities – maybe she was hurt…or (my stomach twists unpleasantly) dead. Could that have happened?

I try to sound calm and in control as I ask, "What did she look like? Was something wrong with her?"

Joshua shudders. "_Yes_," he says emphatically, but doesn't elaborate. Isaac nods in agreement.

"How?" I persist. "Was she hurt? Bleeding?"

"Not hurt," Isaac mumbles. "She was _freaky_."

"Freaky in what way?" I struggle to stay patient, but it's agonizing to be getting this in such short, slow pieces.

"Really tall," Joshua says, "and wild-looking."

"She had mud and leaves in her hair," Isaac explains. "And no shoes."

"And…and _stains_ on her shirt," Joshua continues in a whisper.

"Stains," I repeat, perplexed.

"_Red_ stains," Joshua says significantly.

_Oh._ It doesn't take a genius to figure out what he means. I swallow with effort – my throat is dry.

"What was she doing?" I press, still trying to sound calm but suspecting that my voice is rising in pitch.

"Just standing there," Isaac answers. "Holding the soccer ball."

"Did she say anything to you?"

Both of the twins look at me seriously, identical eyes dark and trained intently on my face.

"She wants you to come out," Joshua tells me in a small voice. "She said she wanted to talk to our sister."

"She knows your name," Isaac adds. "Angela, how does she know your name? Do you know her?"

"No. I…I don't know. Okay, listen. We're all staying inside, and I'm going to call the police."

The twins look at each other, blank terror taking over their expressions again. It makes me pause.

"What?"

"Nothing," Isaac says in a high voice, but Joshua throws him a panicked look.

"Tell me," I say quietly.

"She said…she said that if you didn't talk to her, she'd come back at night and…" his voice cracks and he stops talking, his teeth chattering.

"She said she'd do this to our heads, and she squeezed the soccer ball and it burst," Isaac concludes in a whisper. A horrible silence descends over the room. Bile rises in my throat at the thought of some woman – a wild-looking woman who knows my name – lurking outside our house, threatening my brothers…

Bile, I realize, and something else. Anger.

_Fine. This creep thinks she can scare my family? Fine. She wants to talk, I'll talk._

"Okay," I say with as much authority as I can muster. "Here's what we'll do. I'm going to go out–" my brothers immediately protest, but I talk over them, "–and I want you guys to call 911 as soon as I walk out the door. The police will be here in a couple minutes. Nothing's going to happen to me in a couple minutes. Understand?"

They nod mutely. Joshua reaches for the cordless phone.

"All right. Give me a sec."

I look around the room wildly, my eyes lighting on the mudroom door. I cross the kitchen and push the door all the way open – bingo: the twins' baseball equipment. I take one of their bats and heft it in my hands as I head towards the back door. Joshua and Isaac watch me with wide, dark eyes.

"How far into the woods is she?"

"Close enough to see the house," Isaac says in a small voice.

"Okay, you guys. Remember – as soon as I'm out the door, make the call."

Joshua poises his finger over the buttons on the phone. I take a deep breath and wrench the door open.

I force myself to stride confidently across the backyard, resisting the urge to hesitate at the border of the woods. I plunge into the sparse undergrowth, trying not to make a lot of noise but unable to avoid snapping twigs under my feet. I slow down as I head farther into the trees, keeping my eye out for the woman.

I step on a piece of black and white material – the remains of the twins' soccer ball. My grip tightens reflexively on the baseball bat at the sight of it. There's still no sign of the woman, but now my surge of bravado is fading and I'm reluctant to keep moving forward.

"Hello?" I call, hoping I don't sound as nervous as I feel. "Anyone there?"

I take another slow step forward, half concentrating on the woods around me, half trying to calculate whether the twins have made the call and how far the police are from our house.

Another step.

A figure drops down in front of me and I shriek, recoiling. It straightens up in a fluid motion, tossing fiery curls over its – her – shoulder. The twins were right; she's not just freaky, she's _feral_ – when she opens her mouth, I'm surprised to hear words and not snarls.

"Why _hello_, Angela," she says, mocking amusement clear in her startlingly girlish voice. I'm instantly reminded of bells, fountains, music…but twisted somehow. Warped, but still beautiful. She makes no move to approach me, but I start backing up instinctively. It's her eyes. They're black, black as tunnels, as midnight. And her teeth, when she smiles at me, look wet, poisonous.

"What…" I choke. "What – who – what _are _you?"

Her smile widens.

"Thirsty," she whispers. "Very thirsty."

She leaps forward so quickly I don't have time to register the movement. I'm dimly aware of the baseball bat splintering in my hand, of an iron-hard, ice-cold grip on my neck. I don't hear the sirens in the distance; I don't even have time to scream.

-

When I return to consciousness, I immediately wish I hadn't.

Actually, I don't have the capacity to wish that. Every fiber of my being, every minute bit of my awareness is focused on one thing only: the pain. I see the sky and leaves above me but I don't process them; I hear a multitude of voices around me but don't know, don't care what they're saying. For a minute I try to repress the howl of agony gathering in my mouth, but it's useless. I scream my throat raw as the light above me fades.

-

Sometimes I stop screaming, because it doesn't make a difference. Whenever I hear voices nearby, I beg whoever's there to kill me. I never thought I'd be in a position where death seems like the only escape, but this pain doesn't ease for a moment. I feel like molten lava has replaced my blood; this must be what it feels like to burn alive. I imagine I can smell my skin charring, that I can feel my bones melt and fuse into something impossibly hard, harder than titanium.

It's strange, how the agony strips everything else away. I am defined by this pain; I am pain. I have no name.

_Let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die let me die let_

-

Sometime after the second darkening of the sky above me, I feel a change. It's in my fingertips – unlike everything else, they feel…normal. No pain. Maybe they've just been burned off. I can't turn my head or lift my arms to check; it hurts too much.

With the sudden, small disappearance of pain comes the capacity to process things around me. I understand now that I'm lying on the ground, that above me there is a sky and the changes in the light are the sun rising and setting. I remember my name.

_Angela_.

I can understand the words of the others. They talk of thirst, of blood, of a mysterious Her. They wonder who she is, if she will be coming to them. They are disturbed by my pain – it makes them remember their own. All of them have felt it too. One of them is holding my hand, although I can barely feel it. She whispers to me that it's almost over.

As the pain recedes from my hands and feet, I come to believe her.

She introduces herself: her name is Clair. When she tells me her name, I squeeze her hand. It's all I can do.

-

The sky above me is violet when my heart stops.

The pain is concentrated in that one spot; it feels like my heart may explode in my chest as all the fire flows into it. It beats faster and faster, so strongly that I'm sure my whole body must be jerking with every desperate pump.

"Almost done," Clair promises. She sounds relieved. If I weren't so certain I'm about to die, I might be, too.

My heart comes to a halt with a resounding thud. I tense, certain that any second now I'm going to be racing down the proverbial tunnel, but nothing happens. I don't feel like I'm dying, I feel…

I feel like my throat's on fire. I wrench my eyes open with a gasp, hands coming up to clutch at my neck. I dimly register that my skin feels strangely smooth, but my senses are soon overwhelmed by the most heart-wrenchingly wonderful scent that nevertheless increases the horrible discomfort in my throat. It's the strangest mix of hunger and thirst I've ever felt.

"Drink this," Clair's voice orders. She pushes the corner of a plastic bag into my mouth, and the source of the scent trickles onto my tongue.

I don't pause to consider what it is I'm drinking, or to worry about my dignity. I rip the bag from Clair's grasp and guzzle its contents. It's not enough, but as soon as I'm finished she hands me another bag. And another.

The fiery ache eases, and I'm able to concentrate on my surroundings.

"You're a mess; you should wipe your face," Clair's amused voice suggests, and I look up and see her for the first time. I stiffen reflexively, going still like I never have before – I know, somehow, that if I needed to I could stay locked in this position for a week without so much as twitching. I stare warily into Clair's blood-red eyes, but I also note her posture, which is unthreatening. Some previously untapped instinct assures me that she's not a foe – not for now, anyway. I relax and take in the rest of her features.

She's beautiful, but inhumanly so, and not just because of her frightening eyes. Her skin is pale as alabaster and free of even the minutest blemish, and her pixie-cut auburn hair looks softer and glossier than that of models in conditioner commercials. Even in stillness, she appears effortlessly graceful. Her full lips, startlingly red against her white skin, are curved into a pleased smile.

All this observation takes only a fraction of a second; I can't imagine anyone would have noticed the pause between Clair's comment and my movement to touch my face. I touch something sticky and wet and pull my hand away to examine it.

It's easy enough to identify, dripping sluggishly from my fingertips. But I stare at the blood as if I've never seen it before, momentarily unable to accept that it is the source of the irresistible scent, that it's smeared all over my face because I've just drained three bags' worth of it.

A soft breeze pushes my hair back from my face; Clair left and returned with a scrap of fabric – the remains of someone's T-shirt – in less time than it takes to blink.

"You get better at it with practice," she assures me, holding the rag out to me. I take it numbly and scrub my face and hand; the fabric comes away smudged with red.

_Stains on her shirt…red stains…_

"What happened to me?" I whisper. The sound of my own voice terrifies me, although you wouldn't think such a musical voice could be frightening. It only bears the slightest resemblance to my normal voice.

"You were turned," Clair replies, watching me closely. "The pain you felt? That was your body transforming."

"Transforming? Into what?"

It's strange knowing that my heart should be racing but not feeling it. I'm breathing rapidly, though, air whistling through my clenched teeth. It sounds as loud as a train's whistle in my newly sensitive ears. Something about breathing feels odd – not odd, _unnecessary_.

"Transforming into _what_?" I repeat, my voice rising in both volume and pitch. I'm crouched on the ground, and my fingers dig into the packed dirt as easily as if it were butter.

"A vampire," Clair says quietly.

I stare at her for a moment, then burst into shrill laughter.

"Are you crazy?" I demand. "You're crazy. This isn't happening – I'm hallucinating. That's it. All the stress made me snap and now I'm in a mental institution, probably undergoing shock treatments. I bet that's what the pain was…"

I keep babbling, distantly surprised by how quickly the words flow through my lips, much faster than anyone should be able to talk.

"Angela…" Clair begins carefully, but I don't let her finish.

"_How do you know my name?_" I screech, and abandon any semblance of control. Dry sobs wrack my chest as I curl pitifully into the dirt. "This can't be happening," I moan, "I just want to go home."

Clair edges forward slowly until she can put a hand on my back. She pats me uncomfortably, obviously worried that I'll lash out at her. But I'm too distracted by my apparent inability to cry real tears to turn on my comforter. I touch my face in futile search of moisture; my eyes and cheeks are dry despite my breakdown.

"I know," Clair murmurs soothingly. "It's hard in the beginning, but you get used to it."

"I don't _want _to get used to it!" I wail. "I just want things to go back to normal! I want to see my parents…and Ben…"

_Ben_. The thought of him focuses me, and I wipe my eyes out of habit even though there are no tears there. I have to see Ben. Geeky, funny, gentle, normal Ben – he'll snap me out of this. I move to stand up.

Clair's hands are suddenly restraining.

"That's not a good idea. The burn in your throat? That's thirst. For blood – _human _blood – and it never entirely goes away. If you go looking for your family and friends, you'll only wind up hurting them. Believe me."

Her voice goes flat towards the end of her warning, and the darkness in it momentarily stops me. I get the definite sense that she's speaking from personal experience.

"I'd hurt them?" I whisper. The faces of the people I love appear in my mind's eye; the thought of them suffering – and at _my_ hands – makes me recoil.

"You'd _kill _them," she clarifies with utter certainty, looking me dead in the eye. I shudder and turn away, lips trembling.

"I wouldn't," I protest weakly, even as I remember the violence and greed with which I guzzled the blood in the bags Clair gave me. "I could never…I _love _them."

"All the love in the world won't save them once you smell them," Clair pronounces grimly. It's hard to tell when her eyes are such a glaring, terrifying red, but I think there's grief in them, and bitterness. Even so, I have to fight the urge to burst into hysterical laughter again. _Vampire_s? The notion is ridiculous. Vampires do not exist. Period.

I look down at the bloody scrap of T-shirt fabric in my hands and let it drop to the ground.

"Where are we?" I ask. If I'm going to get home, I need to know where I'm starting from.

"Outside Seattle," Clair informs me. "The others are in the city, hunting, but I figured you'd want someone here when you…came to."

"Thanks," I mumble, remembering how she stayed at my side through the pain. Why she would take an interest, though, is beyond me.

"Riley was there, when I turned," Clair murmurs. "I was so confused, and scared…but it was a relief to have someone explain what happened. I know it's hard to believe – we're not supposed to be real – but it'll be a lot easier for you if you try to accept it now."

I just shake my head. I go to get to my feet again, and this time Clair lets me. The sheer speed and fluidity with which I move unnerves me. There's no effort involved; I decide to stand and I'm upright in an instant. It's this impossible grace that makes me doubt my own certainty that I'm hallucinating; I don't know if I could imagine something like this.

"There's something else," Clair says, getting to her feet with the same uncanny combination of speed and poise. "If you go home to your friends and family, they may not even recognize you."

"What?" I whirl around sharply to face her.

"You look different now," she explains simply. "See my face? My body? I didn't look like this before. The transformation kind of…enhances you."

I take in Clair's flawless beauty, and my mind has no effort making the connection between her and the woman from the woods. But hers isn't the only image that rises in my memory…

Edward. Alice. Their exceptional looks, their gracefulness, their sense of…of _otherness. _ The similarities are too great to ignore. I gasp. Clair must misinterpret my epiphany as enthusiasm, because she asks, "Would you like to see yourself?"

It takes maybe a tenth of a second for me to make up my mind (incidentally, I don't remember being able to decide things so quickly before) – it couldn't hurt to know what I've become. Although I can't imagine that the pain I just experienced left me in any condition better than utterly wrecked. I hold out my arm in front of my face, expecting to see a blackened, charcoaled limb, but my arm is smooth, bone-white, and unblemished. I stare at it for a moment, mesmerized by its perfection, its faint luminescence in the moonlight. There are no marks, no freckles – even the scar on the inside of my forearm that's been there since I was nine and bitten by a German shepherd is gone.

My surprise opens up my senses; until now I had been too preoccupied to notice that I'm _noticing _things that always escaped me before. Although I know it's night, the darkness has no effect on my ability to see – the forest around me is as clear as if it were the middle of the day. I can see the veins of leaves hundreds of yards away as if I were holding them up in front of my eyes. As amazing as the sights are, the smells are equally compelling – a plethora of scents surrounds me, hundreds upon hundreds, but instead of being overwhelmed by them I can concentrate on each effortlessly. The same applies to sounds; I somehow hear all and distinguish between each simultaneously. I inhale, and my eyelids flutter as I taste the air. The act of breathing still seems weirdly unnecessary, but still pleasurable – like opening a window in a stuffy room. I enjoy the play of different traces of flavor on my tongue, then turn my focus inward.

The absence of my heartbeat frightens me. As formidably quick as my mind suddenly is, I can't conceive of a rational way to explain how I can feel so vital, so strong, with an inert heart. But the strength – I've never been athletic, and only exercise sporadically, but somehow I know with certainty that if I had to, I can run a mile in the blink of an eye; I could continue running for days and not tire. It's hard to resist taking off at a sprint right now, just to see whether my expectations reflect reality.

All of this consideration happens incredibly quickly; only a second has passed by the time I answer, "Yes."

Clair turns smoothly on her heel and shoots into the trees like an arrow. I follow her easily, staying a step behind although I itch to go even faster, to test the limits of my new physical ability. In no time we're at the edge of a clear pond, which is presumably to function as a mirror. I glance at Clair, who nods encouragingly, and lean over the water to see my reflection.

Although ripples distort the image slightly, the girl in the water is undeniably lovely. Her skin glows white in the moonlight; her light brown waves are full and seem to stir around her shoulders even though there is no breeze. Her features are gorgeous, elegant; what I can see of her body is lithe as a dancer's and even more graceful. The only imperfect part is her eyes: although they're large and framed by long, thick lashes, the irises glow even brighter red than Clair's – demon's eyes in an angel's face.

Nevertheless, the image captivates me. I stretch out a hand a hold it a millimeter above the surface of the water; my reflection mimics the action, reaching towards me.

"This is me?" I ask, my voice soft with wonder.

"Not bad, huh? So far the looks and the abilities are the only redeeming qualities of this experience, but they're big ones."

For a moment I allow myself to be ridiculously shallow – I picture walking the halls of my high school in this body (although with normal-colored eyes), imagine the awed looks of the snotty girls who barely tolerated my presence until they ignored me altogether. No – I discard that fantasy; their reactions aren't the ones I care about. It's the image of Ben's amazed, appreciative face that truly pleases me. He called me beautiful before – what would he say now?

Thinking of Ben brings me back to the present. My desire to see him burns almost as badly as the pain of the last three days, but Clair's warning keeps me from immediately running to Forks. The last time I plunged into action got me kidnapped and – what was the word Clair used? – _turned_.

"That woman," I ask Clair now, "the one who…who changed us – who is she?"

Clair shakes her head and purses her lips.

"I don't know. None of us know. We haven't seen her since our last moments as humans."

_As humans_. The implication that I've been turned into something _not_ human still rankles me. Clair notices and rolls her vivid red eyes.

"Come on, Angela. Could any human possibly have the senses we have, or the strength, or the beauty?"

My mind flashes again to Edward and Alice. My memory of them seems somehow dim in comparison to the clarity with which I observe my current surroundings, as if I'm looking into my past through a dark glass. But even in my imperfect recollection, the Cullens are unmistakably different than the other students at my school. None of the others – I have to stop myself from thinking _humans_ – can compare. But they can't possibly be vampires, not if they're around people almost every day. Carlisle Cullen is a surgeon, for crying out loud! How could he do that if he constantly craves blood? And their eyes aren't red, like mine or Clair's, but tawny, almost golden.

"Maybe they can," I respond, but I sound unsure even to my own ears. Clair doesn't even bother to press her point, choosing only to raise a perfect, skeptical eyebrow. I attempt to bring the subject back around to my kidnapper.

"So no one knows who she is? Not even her name?"

Clair doesn't need me to explain which "she" I'm talking about.

"Not even her name," she affirms. "She has a sort of second-in-command – that's Riley. He's usually there when someone wakes up, so he can feed us and tell us what we are. But Riley's been away with _her _since yesterday, so I took his place."

"Where did the blood come from?"

"Stolen from hospitals," Clair responds promptly. "A little at a time, so there's something to take the edge off after waking up. Next time you're thirsty, you'll hunt."

"Hunt? You mean _people?_"

I shrink back from her, horrified. She said it so calmly, as if she were proposing calling out for Chinese food rather than draining someone's blood. She looks slightly perplexed by my reaction.

"Well, yes, what else?"

"That's _murder_!"

"Trust me, you'll change your tune once you get thirsty again," Clair says dryly. "Remember how bad you felt when you woke up, and how good the blood smelled? Do you think you'd stop and think, 'Well, sure, I'm thirsty, but that's a human life right there' when faced with an actual person? Because you won't."

I stare at her; for a moment I'm too shocked to speak.

"And you don't consider that a little callous?" I ask weakly once I've recovered my voice. She looks down, and suddenly I see that she's more disturbed by this than she previously let on. When she looks up again, her expression is resigned.

"Sure I do," she says quietly. "I don't even like to think about it. But what other option is there? We can't keep taking blood bags from the hospitals – moral conflicts aside, there wouldn't be enough to sustain us for long. What I gave you only took the edge off your thirst – you'll have to hunt before long."

"Then why don't we move around?" I suggest, choosing to ignore the warning about my impending need to hunt. "We could go from city to city so that the hospitals have time to replenish what we take, and that way there'd be enough for us to…"

I don't want to say _drink_ out loud. Clair shakes her head slowly.

"Not an option," she says bluntly. "At least, not for now. There's something we have to do here."

It's my turn to look perplexed.

"She made us for a reason," Clair starts to explain, then hesitates. "I don't know if I should wait for Riley to come back to tell you – he'd probably be able to explain it better…"

"No, tell me," I urge her, desperate, now that I know there's a _reason _this happened to me, to understand why. "And if I don't get it, Riley can explain it when he gets back."

"Okay," Clair agrees after a brief pause. "Here's what I know: there's a coven – that's a group of vampires," she explains at my blank look, "nearby that poses a threat to us, especially _her_. They're not like us: they have yellow eyes, and Riley told me that they keep humans as pets. And it causes all kinds of trouble for us, because it disrupts our way of life. Because of their human, the other member of _her _coven were killed, including her first mate."

"They keep humans as _pets_?" I repeat, picturing a terrified person chained up and surrounded by grinning, sadistic vampires. "That's…that's sick. Demeaning. Why would they do that?"

"Who knows?" Clair shrugs, although she looks distasteful. "Maybe it amuses them. Because their eyes aren't as obviously different as ours, they even pretend to be human – that's how they capture their pets. The point is, _she _created us so we could help her get rid of the yellow eyes. After that, we'll all probably go our own way – there are a lot of us, and Riley told me covens are usually small – maybe two or three vampires. That's another weird thing about the yellow eyes – there are a lot of them. Seven, I think."

My body reacts to this information even before my newly quick mind processes it. My muscles tense, and something liquid pools in my mouth – I'd call it saliva, but saliva doesn't burn like this; it feels more like acid.

"Venom," Clair explains, noting my reaction. "Don't worry about it – it's an instinctive response to anything threatening – and the yellow eyes are definitely threatening."

I have to agree with her there – the idea of humans as pets, playthings, offends me both as a former human (for there's no denying it now – I'm definitely not human any longer) and as the new creature I am. To treat humans that way goes against our nature; I know this in some core part of myself.

Still, something about Clair's description nags at my human memory. _Yellow eyes…they pretend to be human…they keep a human pet…_

"How are we supposed to get rid of them?" I ask.

"We'll lure them out and fight them."

"Fight?"

My reaction is divided here. Part of me, the new part, is unconcerned by the thought of a fight, even eager for it. But the other part, the human part, doesn't like the idea at all. As a human, I remember, I was not aggressive. I didn't argue, I reasoned. I didn't hurt people, I tried to be kind both in action and in judgment, and if people weren't kind to me in turn, I just avoided them. And despite the uneasiness I feel towards the yellow-eyed vampires, it doesn't change the fact that they haven't done anything to me, or that I'm only getting this information third-hand. _She _told Riley, who told Clair, who told me – maybe some of the information got distorted as it was passed along.

Clair doesn't appear to notice my reluctance.

"Riley says they're still trying to figure out a way to get the yellow eyes out into the open. I think the plan is to use their human pet – they're very protective of her, apparently. Protective enough to fight and kill over her. One of them hardly even lets her out of his sight. But that's part of the problem – how do we get her away from the yellow eyes if at least one of them is always there…?"

Clair falls silent for a moment, considering this, but I've stopped paying attention to her. The pieces have finally come together, and I curse myself for not seeing it to begin with.

Yellow eyes. Vampires who pretend to be human. A human pet, a girl. But what if the human girl isn't a pet at all, but something much more?

The "yellow eyes" are the Cullens. Of that I'm sure. And the human girl…

She can only be Bella Swan.

Beside me, Clair stiffens and looks up, her crimson eyes glowing brighter with sudden enthusiasm.

"It's Riley," she says. "He's back."

* * *

Thanks for reading!


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